


River of Heaven

by DeskGirl



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Fluff, Don’t copy to another site, Family, Friendship/Love, Ghosts, Historical References, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Other, Past Violence, Second Chances, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2020-10-14 04:42:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20594897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeskGirl/pseuds/DeskGirl
Summary: "I lived without honor, and I died without honor. I did not deserve peace, so I did not ask for it. However, in my final moments, I found myself wishing I might see my brother again in death. Selfishly, I hoped I might be allowed to ask his forgiveness. How could I have known he was still alive?"***In 1878, on a night marked by brutality and betrayal, Shimada Hanzo died. Yet his spirit lingered, bound to the sword that he had once soaked in the blood of his own kin. Most would consider this a curse, and perhaps it was. But for Hanzo, it was also a second chance.





	1. The Man Standing Beneath the Cottonwood Tree

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a combination of the hype from the [MythMcHanzo Zine](https://twitter.com/MythMcHanzo) coming out and the style, supernatural elements, and gentle romance of [Drink Sweet Salt](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18916948/chapters/44907874) by Kalikuks.

In 1878, on a night marked by brutality and betrayal, Shimada Hanzo died. Yet his spirit lingered, bound to the sword that he had once soaked in the blood of his own kin. Most would consider this a curse, and perhaps it was. But for Hanzo, it was also a second chance.

In life, Hanzo had valued honor above all other virtues. Yet, for the sake of his clan, he had abandoned that virtue and taken up arms against his own brother. Too late did he regret the decision. For years, he bore the shame of his actions. He could not undo what had been done, nor could he seek to make amends. In the end, it was his guilt that led to that final and most terrible night.

Hanzo found it a point of humorous irony that, in death, he should discover Genji had survived. More than that, Genji had found peace and happiness, a family, even forgiveness for his undeserving older brother.

Ever since, Hanzo had devoted himself to watching over the last of the Shimada bloodline.

Hanzo watched as Genji’s latest descendent, Ichiro, unpacked one of countless moving boxes. Hanzo liked Ichiro. He looked a great deal like Genji, though his smile was more reserved, and his eyes were softer.

Packing peanuts tumbled everywhere as Ichiro pulled out a heavily bubble-wrapped rectangle nearly too large and long for him to hold. He set it on the floor and pulled out a pocket knife to begin cutting away the tape and plastic. A glass case was revealed with a weapon stand inside. Ichiro lifted it with a grunt and set it on the fireplace mantle.

Ichiro had left his knife on the floor. While his back was turned, Hanzo reached down and brushed his fingers along the handle. The blade swung shut.

Ichiro turned around and promptly stepped on the pocket knife. He jumped, then sighed when he saw it was closed. “Clumsy,” he admonished himself. He picked it up and slipped it back into his pocket.

Hanzo agreed. Ichiro had always been absent-minded. How he survived four years of college without being hit by a car or getting tetanus or food poisoning, he wasn’t sure. Perhaps he had Rosa to thank.

Rosa was Ichiro’s wife. She was currently in the master bedroom sorting clothes and getting them hung in the closet.

Ichiro had gone to school to become an architect. He liked planning things, and he had his entire life figured out from the prodigious California university he’d chosen to the courses he needed to the companies he would apply to once he’d earned his degree. His plans hadn’t included falling in love with Rosa the biology major. It hadn’t included getting married so young or having a baby boy or wanting to move to New Mexico where Rosa’s family all lived.

When they got ready to move, Ichiro’s parents offered him Hanzo’s sword. This was tradition. Genji had started it. It was all that remained of Hanzo, and he had decided that despite its past, or perhaps because of it, the sword would be kept in a loving home so that Hanzo’s spirit might find peace. The family did not know the truth of the matter—that Hanzo’s spirit was indeed with them—but they saw how fortune favored those who kept the sword in their home, and so they had passed it down faithfully for generations.

Now, moving to a foreign land with a wife and young son, and with another child on the way, the sword passed to Ichiro.

Hanzo watched as Ichiro dug around in the moving box again and withdrew a long, thin package. He unwrapped the sword, handling it like it was made of glass. The katana had seen better days. The sheath was gone. The handle’s wrap was destroyed; only frayed, charred bits of it clung around the metal pommel and guard. The wooden handle was cracked. The blade itself was chipped—had been since the day Hanzo turned it on his brother. The steel itself, though, gleamed as if new. It had seen many purifications in shinto shrines and the loving care of past family members who tended the blade on days reserved for cleaning the graves of ancestors. It was a kindness Hanzo didn’t feel he deserved.

Hanzo waited while Ichiro housed the katana in its case, making sure he didn’t manage to hurt himself on it. That would be just his luck.

From the other end of the house, Rosa shouted: “Matty, stay out of that tree!”

If there was one person Hanzo needed to worry about more than Ichiro, it was his son, Matteo. At six years old, Matteo Shimada was old enough to get into everything, but too young to consider any of the consequences. Once he decided he was going to do something, he simply went ahead and did it. While his father might have Genji’s looks, Matteo had inherited his troublemaking spirit. Hanzo scolded himself for not keeping an eye on the boy.

While the property surrounding the new house was sprawling, there was little in the way of trees. Only one of them was tall enough to climb. A small stream cut through the acreage to the east, and it was there near its bank that a cottonwood tree stood. It was an old, massive beast of a tree with bare branches twisted up towards the sky. The perfect temptation for little boys with too much free time on their hands and no supervision.

Matteo was easy to spot, standing a few feet away looking as innocent as he could as he picked up pebbles like a hen pecking at grain, as if it had always been his intention to fill his pockets with rocks and not to climb the tree his mother had very explicitly told him not to climb.

He wasn’t alone.

Hanzo went still when he saw the man standing beneath the cottonwood tree. He looked rough, unshaven as he was and dressed in obviously well-worn clothes. He wore a cowboy hat and a wrap of sorts over his shoulders that obscured his features. He seemed to be completely focused on Matteo, who continued digging in the dirt, unaware and uncaring.

In the blink of an eye, Hanzo was there beside his young charge. Muscle memory—or would it simply be memory now?—drove his hands to seek a weapon. As soon as he thought it, there it was: the bow in his hand and a quiver across his back. He could not strike down the living, but he had found ways over the years to affect them: stinging pains, scratches, bruises, unfortunate accidents. His was not an empty threat.

The man appeared to start. Then he slowly reached up and tipped the brim of his hat in greeting. Shock stayed Hanzo’s hand. He could see him?

“Howdy,” the man said, and the corner of his mouth pulled up in a tentative smile, as if he, too, was struggling to understand what was happening. And perhaps he was. A man had just materialized before him, intent on attacking him. Hanzo would be equally startled, though he didn’t think he would smile as this man smiled.

Hanzo didn’t respond beyond a slight tilt of his head in acknowledgment. He kept his bow at the ready.

The rough-looking man’s smile only grew. His hand dropped to rest on his belt, just above an empty gun holster. “Now see, it’s been a while since I conversed with a fella, but I do believe the polite thing to do is introduce yourself.”

Hanzo had never been the curious sort. Death had not changed this. Any other person might have a thousand questions about who this man was or how he could see a spirit or what he was doing here in the first place. Hanzo did not intend to ask any such thing, nor give his name, nor say anything at all that might be misconstrued as an invitation to “converse.”

When it became clear Hanzo was not going to answer, the man sighed and shook his head. “Fine then, I’ll go first. Th’ name’s McCree.”

“I did not ask,” Hanzo said curtly. He snapped his mouth shut, realizing he had been baited into replying. He frowned.

“No, you didn’t,” the cowboy—McCree—agreed. “Mighty rude, but I won’t hold it against ya.” He settled back against the trunk of the tree, relaxed as could be, as if Hanzo were not armed. “You could always make it up to me by tellin' me what I can call you. ’s only fair.”

Never in all his life had Hanzo been addressed so informally. Times may have changed, but he had not, and he did not appreciate this McCree’s familiarity.

“Not much of a talker, are ya?” McCree commented to break the silence that had fallen yet again. “That’s fine. Ain’t the first time I’ve had a one-sided conversation; I can talk enough for the both of us. I’d bet money you’re with the folks that just moved in, right? From the looks of ya, you’ve come a long way. Maybe when you’re feelin’ more talkative, you could tell me some stories. Bet you’ve seen a thing or two.”

Enough of this. Hanzo drew an arrow and set it to the bowstring, not yet taking aim, but with clear intent to do so. “This is not your land. You are not welcome here. Leave.”

The man’s brows shot up and vanished under his bangs. “I beg your pardon?”

Hanzo sneered. “You heard me, McCree.” The man’s name, unfamiliar on Hanzo’s tongue, carried a natural harshness to it. It served his purpose better than any insult or threat, and he spoke it with the same vehemence. “Leave.”

McCree was not supposed to find any of this funny, but apparently he did. He leaned forward with a hand on his knee so that his hat brim hid everything but his wide, laughing mouth.

Hanzo’s grip on his bow tightened. A wind picked up, making the branches of the cottonwood creak.

McCree put up his hand. “Sorry. ‘m sorry. It’s just, well, technically I was here first. An’ anyhow”—when McCree looked up, there was a dark humor in his eyes—“I couldn’t leave if I tried.”

“What do you mean?”

“You ain’t figured it out yet?”

When Hanzo didn’t reply, McCree nodded towards Matteo, who had found a beetle and was watching it with his little mouth hanging open in fascination. Matteo, who had not responded to anything the strange man had said so far or even glanced his way once.

“You’re—” Hanzo cut himself off. Of course he was a spirit. Why else would they be able to see and speak to one another? It explained everything: McCree’s appearance, his accent, his strange words about not being able to leave. But this brought up a new issue.

“What are your intentions towards my family?”

“My… intentions?” McCree seemed confused.

“This family is under my protection,” Hanzo said. “If you should seek to harm them, I will end you. What little of you there is left, at any rate.”

McCree held up his hand as if to defend himself. “Whoa now. I got no quarrel with you or yours. I’m not lookin’ for trouble.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Well now, if that ain’t a loaded question.” McCree ran his fingers through his short beard, which only made it look wilder. “You’d think after all this time I’d have an answer, but I can’t rightly tell ya. I don’t know why I’m here. I just…am.”

Hanzo watched McCree’s expression darken by minute degrees and his mouth work wordlessly as he struggled with some thought. Whether he had an answer or not, it seemed he had some suspicions, none of which he intended to share. Not with a stranger, anyways.

When he had been alive, Hanzo had often endured Genji’s lighthearted jabs about his lack of social grace. He knew all the etiquette and rules of society, but had no tact when it came to words. He was curt at times, and he approached every conversation like he was discussing business, which many found off-putting. While no one would dare speak poorly of him in his presence, he was no fool as to think people did not gossip about him.

Still, the moment seemed to call for words, as much as Hanzo wished to avoid it, so he tried his best to make small talk. “I take it, then, that you will not be leaving any time soon.”

While it might not have been Hanzo’s exact intention, his brusque words seemed to lighten the other spirit’s mood. McCree smiled wryly. “I’m afraid not. Looks like we’re neighbors.”

“Hm. Very well then.” Hands now empty, Hanzo crossed his arms. “But should you harm any member of my family, I will make you regret it.”

“You got nothing to fear from me,” McCree reassured. He leaned back again, and the sun snuck under his hat brim to warm his cheekbones and dance in his dark eyes.

Now that Hanzo knew his young charge wasn’t in any danger, he found his attention drawn to all the little details that made up the whole of his new and questionable “neighbor.”

McCree’s clothes were not merely well-worn, but _old_. He wore chaps over canvas trousers; simple leather boots with spurs on the back; an empty gunbelt decorated with round, silver plates along the band and a rather large buckle; and last but not least, the sun-bleached, sweat-stained cowboy hat currently threatening to tip backwards off his head. Although the wrap over his shoulders hid everything else, it was frayed and torn like it’d seen years of use. The entirety of his wardrobe consisted of muted shades of brown. The wrap may once have been red, but time and the elements had faded it.

The man himself looked to be around Hanzo’s age. It made sense, he supposed. People who died of old age without regrets didn’t typically become ghosts. Ghosts were born of fear and blood and pain and regret. McCree seemed peaceful enough now, though, leaning against the cottonwood with his long legs loosely crossed and his thumb hooked in his belt. However, something about the set of his shoulders and his keen eyes gave Hanzo pause. He knew nothing of McCree’s past, but he knew that doves did not have the eyes of hawks. McCree could be violent. A liar. A killer. It was hard to believe, though, with that perpetual smile tugging at the corners of his wide mouth.

“You’re starin’,” McCree said.

Hanzo started, then frowned. “I am assessing.”

“Funny, your assessin’ feels a lot like starin’. What’cha thinking there, partner?”

“I am thinking that I know nothing about you beyond your name.”

“Well, I know even less about you, so, if you think about it, you got the high ground, wouldn’t’cha say? Speaking o' which, feel free to even the playing ground any time.”

Impetuous, overly-familiar, possibly dangerous—McCree possessed a combination of traits that ought to make for a wholly unpalatable individual. On the other hand, one might also describe him as unreserved and good-natured. As for being dangerous, well, Hanzo was hardly in a position to judge.

Hanzo found himself smirking. “If I have the high ground, then I see no reason to relinquish it.”

The crunch of gravel and the scrape of scrub brush against denim announced the approach of another person. It was Rosa.

Rosa tried to storm over, but she was short and seven months pregnant, which ruined the effect. “Matty! What did I tell you?”

Matteo dropped the rocks in his hands and wiped his sweaty palms on his shorts. “I didn’t climb the tree,” he argued in the tone of a child who had still done something he knew he shouldn’t have.

Rosa took Matteo’s little hands in hers. “I told you earlier not to go too far. I don’t want you all the way out here by yourself. You need to stay where I can see you. Come on inside, mi hijo. We’ll come back out later.”

“I don’t wanna,” Matteo whined even as he let himself be guided back towards the house.

Hanzo turned back around only to find McCree had vanished. It seemed their conversation was over. Hanzo sighed, surprised at the twinge of disappointment he felt. He began to follow his charges back to the house, but drew up short.

“McCree?” he called, turning on his heel, hoping the other spirit might hear him.

McCree was sitting in the lowest crook of the cottonwood’s branches, leaning forward with his arm braced across his knees. “I’m here.” Even from a distance, the flash of his teeth was obvious as he smiled. “Did ya come up another threat to throw my way?”

Hanzo snorted softly and shook his head as he reconsidered what he was about to say. “I do not know how long we will be here. Several years at least.” Rosa and Ichiro had talked about this house merely being a stepping stone, but already they spoke of remodeling and a yard and possibly even an expansion to the house. Plans looked to be changing.

“I’ve decided. Despite my…” Hanzo waved a hand in a small circle as he tried to come up with an appropriate word.

“Threats?” McCree suggested cheekily.

“Reservations,” Hanzo said, frowning. “Despite my reservations, I am not looking to make enemies. I would rather we be on peaceful terms. In light of that fact, you may call me Shimada.” His family name alone was rather less formal than he preferred, but he wasn’t inclined to teach this American about the intricacies of honorifics, and that was presuming he would use them if taught.

McCree seemed pleased. “Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Hanzo immediately regretted being polite. His expression must have been quite something, because McCree laughed in a vaguely nervous sort of way. “Sorry, I couldn’t help myself. Suppose my manners are rusty after all this time. Lemme try that again.”

One moment, McCree was in the tree, the next, he stood a respectful distance away from Hanzo. He touched the brim of his hat while ducking his head. It was less of a bow, and more like he was leaning in to share a secret. “It’s a pleasure t’ make your acquaintance, Shimada. I look forward to, ah, being on peaceful terms with you.”

While still wary, Hanzo found himself pleasantly surprised. He gave a precise, shallow bow. “Likewise.” Something about the look in McCree’s eyes and the self-amused curl of his lips drove Hanzo to add: “Don’t make me regret not shooting you.”

“Not sure I can promise ya that. But I like to think I’m better company than none at all.”

“I suppose we will see. I will take my leave now. Good day, McCree.”

“See ya ‘round, Shimada.”

Hanzo took his time walking back to the house. He paused at the door and took one last look back at the cottonwood tree. McCree was too far away for Hanzo to make out any details beyond his silhouette, but he thought he saw smoke curling above the other spirit’s head. How funny: a dead man who smoked. He wasn’t sure what to make of McCree, but at least he was interesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm hard at work on my bigger writing project, but I wanted something sweet and gentle that I can pick up whenever I'm in the mood. Here's hoping you enjoy reading it as much as I'm enjoying writing it.


	2. A Certain Kinda Loneliness

The last two weeks had been hectic, but the house was finally beginning to look like a home. Rosa had taken it upon herself to do most of the decorating while Ichiro assembled furniture (this was for the best as he had a mind meant for numbers and no sense of fashion).

She infused each room with a different personality, combining hers and Ichiro’s tastes. The kitchen was bright with colorful wall hangings and patterned dishes. In contrast, the living room’s neutral tones and hints of Japanese design created a tranquil atmosphere. The shared home office had a low bookcase with a collection of Super Sentai memorabilia on top; a large, comfy chair and lamp; a drafting table; and an oak desk with a computer and several potted succulents. The master bedroom was decorated in a calming combination of blues and greens. Matteo had been allowed to pick the colors and furniture for his room, which resulted in a riot of color and a very happy six-year old. The nursery was still a work in progress.

Rosa had hung all the family photos in the dining area. In the living room, to balance out the muted colors and simple furniture, she had hung a large, framed painting—a gift from Ichiro’s parents. It was a reproduction of a late Edo period woodblock print: a bustling city street after sunset, illuminated by lanterns hanging over shop fronts. The people’s clothes suggested early autumn. The details were so fine that one could see the different foods being sold in one of the stalls and the pink in the cheeks of a child holding his mother’s hand.

The painting was not new. It had belonged to Ichiro’s mother, Misako, who inherited it from her mother in turn. After marrying into the Shimada family, she’d hung it in every house she ever moved to. Hanzo remembered the first place, back when she and Shinta were newlyweds with stars in their eyes and their whole future ahead of them. It was a small apartment, nothing like the suburban home they enjoyed now, but they were happy. The very first thing Misako did when they moved in was to hang that painting up. He also remembered, with some amusement, how upset she’d been over Shinta mounting Hanzo’s katana on the wall. They’d had their first fight over it. Eventually, Misako relented and allowed Shinta “this one thing.” Misako was like stone to Shinta’s cool stream. Shinta gave way easily to her firm stance, but with time, he could wear her sharp edges smooth, and in that, they found balance.

Now, in the peaceful quiet of night with the whole house sleeping, Hanzo was grateful that Misako had given the painting to Ichiro. He struggled not to indulge in his nostalgia too much, but the world was so different after all these years that it was nice to have something he could look at that reminded him of his life.

The painting was of another city, or perhaps completely fabricated, but in it, Hanzo saw his childhood home. If he focused, he could still remember the savory, smoky fragrance of gently simmering dashi mingling with the scent of grilled eel. With it came memories of cool evenings and long shadows. Hanzo sometimes enjoyed the presence of his parents on such walks, but more often, it would be a clan guard. Always, such adventures included Genji. When he was little, he shuffled behind Hanzo with his fingers hooked into his obi, letting Hanzo lead while he shyly looked at everything. Soon enough, it was Hanzo chasing after him, trying to keep him in sight and out of trouble. Hanzo might put on airs of frustration, but he never truly minded. Not until Genji started going off on his own.

Bitter memories rose to the surface: Genji slipping out late in the evening to wander the darkened streets by himself; finding him in bakuto gambling halls; cleaning up after his drunken fights; the cloying smell of perfume and alcohol still clinging to his clothes when or if he came home; bitter arguments that had to be hissed between clenched teeth to keep other people from hearing—a wet, choked gasp and the sensation of steel hitting bone.

The force of the memory was like a physical blow. Hanzo reeled back. Unchecked energy rolled off of him. The coffee table and the couch jolted back in his wake, and the lamp on the side table rattled loudly. The woodblock print bounced against the wall before settling again, slightly crooked.

Hanzo froze and listened for noise from the other end of the house. He waited patiently for several minutes to make sure no one had woken up. Once he was certain it was safe, he began fixing the living room. With small bursts of energy, he nudged the furniture back into place. The couch was heavy and required a substantial amount of force, only moving by millimeters with each push, but Hanzo didn’t let up.

When he stopped, finally satisfied, he felt drawn thin. It wasn’t smart to use so much energy, and it was largely unnecessary: everyone in the house would surely assume it was someone else’s fault and brush the incident off. It served as a good distraction, though, and that was Hanzo’s real goal.

It was a dangerous thing to linger on old wounds and dark days. If he let himself do it too much, he would fade until he became nothing more than an echo of something that had once been a soul. He had seen such echoes before. He would not let it happen to him. He still had work to do.

As Hanzo had worked and night progressed, the light of the moon through the windows had crept across the walls. Now, the pale, ethereal light lay across a corner of the woodblock print Hanzo had just straightened, highlighting one of the many figures walking along the street: a traveler in a patched indigo yukata. The traveler had been painted with his back to the viewer. He braced himself on a long pole as if weary from days of hard travel. His sandogasa was tipped back as he looked up at the full moon.

Was it a full moon tonight? Hanzo had lost track of the time in the chaos of the move. He drifted to the window.

Set high in the dark blue sky, the moon gleamed like a pearl, casting its light across the arid plains and turning everything silver. The living room and kitchen were on the east side of the house; from the window, Hanzo could easily see the silhouette of the cottonwood tree against the velvet night.

McCree stood under the tree, a hand resting against the trunk. Where the moonlight graced his features, he, too, had been turned nearly silver like the world around him. The rest of him was cast in shadow. His hat, tipped back at an angle, hid his face.

Though he saw him occasionally, Hanzo had only greeted McCree in passing once or twice since meeting him. There seemed to be no pattern to his comings and goings, but he did appear more often when one of the Shimada family was outside, watching them with a focused sort of fascination. Anything must be more interesting than watching the wind in the grass and the sun rise and set after so many years of nothing else.

Was he lonely out there? Even surrounded by his brother’s family, Hanzo felt hollow at times, and when he looked down, he expected to find a physical hole. Did McCree feel it, too? Had he grown used to the ache in his chest, or had it quietly grown with time, threatening to swallow him up?

The dark and silence of the house pressed at Hanzo’s back. He sucked in a sharp breath that he no longer needed, then stepped through the stucco wall and out into the night.

McCree started when Hanzo appeared beside him.

“Didn’t hear you coming,” he said.

“Yes, there is a reason for that,” Hanzo said flatly.

McCree snorted. “Right. O’ course. Wouldn’t hurt to give a man a little warning, though.”

“As if either of us has anything to be afraid of anymore.”

“You got me there.”

Hanzo clasped his hands behind his back. “Still, I will be more mindful in the future.”

Although he couldn’t feel the chill of the night air, Hanzo found the wide open space alone refreshing. The plains stretched out in every direction, seemingly endless if not for the distant silhouette of low hills. The breeze teased at the sprawling, dry brush, making it rustle. Hanzo could hear the gentle hoots of an owl in one of the shorter trees nearby. From the dark of the little creek, a lone grasshopper played its tune.

Hanzo looked up and found himself amazed. It’d been decades since he last saw the night sky free of light pollution. Even now, a hazy orange glow to the south marked the presence of the city several miles away. Out in the darkened country, though, the sky gleamed with countless pinpoints of light, set against a backdrop of deep violets and cool blues and bright lavenders. Stretching from one horizon to the other, the River of Heaven gleamed like diamond dust spilled across freshly dyed silk.

Without meaning to, Hanzo let out a soft noise of astonishment.

McCree hummed in agreement. “It’s something, ain’t it? Doesn’t matter how many times I see it, it never fails t’ take my breath away.”

Hanzo nodded once, slowly. “It seems I have been in the city too long; I’d forgotten how extraordinary the stars are.”

“I never could stand to be anywhere civilized for too long,” McCree said. “Rubbin’ elbows with folks now and then is nice, but there’s a certain kinda loneliness that comes with bein’ surrounded by strangers.”

“You prefer the loneliness of the desert?” Hanzo risked a glance at his companion. The moonlight caught on the weave of McCree’s wrap and danced off the silver of his belt. His spurs were dim, winking stars. His face seemed cut from iron-rich stone, eroded with time and worn to smooth curves by the wind. McCree’s lips pressed together in thought, then went soft.

“Never felt lonely out here,” McCree said. “Just small.”

“That does not sound much better.” Hanzo had rarely been made to feel small, but such moments were seared like brands into his memory. All his life, he had fought to keep anyone from having that kind of power over him.

McCree shrugged. “Maybe to some. I’ve always found it sorta comforting.”

McCree looked over, and Hanzo glanced away quickly, as if caught doing something he shouldn’t.

“I… should head back inside.”

“So soon?” McCree sounded surprised. Perhaps a little disappointed. He was all alone out here. Had been for who knew how long.

Hanzo steeled himself against the sting of guilt; this entire conversation was entirely too personal to be having with a man he barely knew. He blamed the strangeness of the night and his own restless, unsettled mind.

“I am afraid so.” Hanzo started walking towards the house, which conveniently put McCree at his back.

McCree followed. “How come?”

Hanzo’s brow pinched. He came to a stop. “I have responsibilities. It is my duty to protect the Shimada family.”

“Nothin’ to protect them from right now: they’re all asleep.” McCree stepped around Hanzo to stand between him and the house. He had his hat in his hand. Without its shadow to hide his face, McCree was easy to read. His expression spoke of caution and calculated risk, but also a glimmer of blind hope. Hanzo was reminded of a man playing Chō-Han. Even or odd? What would the dice say once he peeked under the cup? How much was he willing to gamble?

“Stay for a story,” McCree said, weighing his words carefully even as he spoke them. “Just one. I bet”—here he paused, and his gaze flickered to the sky overhead before he smiled at Hanzo, suddenly sly—“I bet you ain’t ever heard the tale o’ how First Woman and Coyote set the stars in the sky.”

A rejection sat ready on Hanzo’s tongue, but it died in the face of his curiosity. How long had it been since he heard a new story? He couldn’t help but answer: “I have not.”

McCree set his hat back on his head, then gestured for Hanzo to join him under the cottonwood.

Hanzo followed, watching the cowboy’s spurs flash with each step. They made no sound. Hanzo had never met a cowboy before, but with the passage of time came invention, electricity in homes, radio, and then television bringing shows and movies about places far away and set in different times like the Old West. One thing Hanzo had learned was cowboys’ spurs were supposed to make a distinctive clinking noise. Odd, but then, none of the cowboys on TV had been ghosts.

McCree settled on the hard-packed earth between the tree’s roots and patted the ground in silent invitation. Hanzo wavered, then relented and sat beside McCree.

“This had better be good,” Hanzo said.

“Swear on my grave.”

“That’s… terrible,” Hanzo said flatly, which earned him a bright laugh from his companion. He fought not to smile. “Go on, then, tell your story.”

“Gladly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Dashi_ \- a soup base made with kelp and fish that has a distinctive flavor  
_Bakuto_ \- one of the two predecessors to the yakuza. While the other predecessor, the _tekiya_, were itinerant merchants that also engaged in activities like protection rackets, the bakuto dealt in gambling and were seen as even less reputable. Both were seen as social outcasts.  
_Sandogasa_ \- a wide, woven hat to protect against the sun and rain  
_Chō-Han_ \- a gambling game involving two dice and a cup. The dice are shaken and the cup overturned, then bets are made on whether the sum will be odd or even.
> 
> A note regarding McCree's story: From what I've found, there's two general stories in Navajo tradition about the creation of the constellations. In one version, they're crafted by Black God, and in the other, they're designed by First Woman. I don't know if one predates the other. I've chosen the story of First Woman because, one, I heard it first, two, I found a richly narrated version I like which I will link next chapter, and three, it seemed to me the version McCree's grandmother would've enjoyed telling him.


	3. Waiting for Dawn

Sitting on the ground under the blanket of stars, Hanzo began to get a sense of the smallness McCree had described. He was used to seeing the stars framed by translucent shōji or winking through the branches of cherry blossom trees in gardens ringed by high walls or dusting the narrow ribbons of sky overhead when Hanzo walked through Hanamura’s streets at night. The desert felt different. Open. Aside from the nearby house, there was nothing here for miles; the glittering night sky seemed endless. 

Hanzo had once read in one of Ichiro’s school textbooks that the stars were billions of years old. It was a nearly incomprehensible number to him at the time, but he thought he understood now. He had existed for a century and a half. Time dragged and swept past him in turns. He watched Genji’s children grow up, have their own families, then grow old, but he thought of them all as children just the same. Here, under the winking eyes of these ageless beings, he was the child. 

Motion caught Hanzo’s eye. McCree had reached under his wrap and now withdrew a flat, silver case. It was tarnished, stamped with a floral pattern, and there was a nasty dent in the side. McCree set it on the ground and flipped it open to reveal a half-dozen thin cigars and a match box. He took his time setting one of the cigars between his lips, shaking out a match, striking it against his boot, and puffing on the cigar until the end glowed gently. When he breathed out, a satisfying plume of smoke escaped and slowly drifted away. 

McCree scooped up the case and closed it with a snap. He ran his thumb over the dent with a fond smile. “Won this thing in a card game once. Real silver. Planned on sellin’ it when I got the chance, but you see here? I had it in my breast pocket one day, and it caught a bullet for me. Couldn’t bear to part with it after that. Didn’t have it buffed out either; looks better this way.”

McCree started to tuck the case away before he stopped. “Look at me: my manners really are rusty. I know it don’t actually do much for the likes of us, but would ya like one anyway?” He offered up the silver case.

Hanzo frowned. “I can’t.”

“What d’ya mean you can’t?” McCree’s cigar bobbed as he worked it between his teeth, his expression twisting with confusion.“You against it? I’ve heard of teetotalers, but I thought they were just against alcohol. Unless you got, uh”—McCree snapped his fingers—“asthma. Known a few fellas like that; whole reason they left the cities to work as ranch hands was the fresh air. Then again, we don’t breathe. I mean, I don’t. Do you?”

Hanzo’s frown deepened as McCree spoke. He thought of the pale specters he had encountered in the past—those poor, thin things as insubstantial as moonlight, trapped in their own memories and unaware of the world around them. He remembered how he had reached out to them in the beginning, brimming with hope and loneliness, only for them to pass through him like smoke. But McCree was different. Solid. Lucid. Hanzo had never encountered another spirit like himself before now. Perhaps…

Hanzo silently held out a hand, palm up. McCree stared. Hanzo crooked his fingers, beckoning. Looking uncertain, McCree reached over to pass him the case. 

As they came close, a pressure built between them like heavy air before a storm. Hanzo watched the beat-up silver case meet the palm of his hand, and then they passed through each other. The action was accompanied by an unpleasant, tingling thrum of energy. Having expected it, Hanzo bore it easily, but McCree jolted at the gentle shock. Forgetting himself, he let his cigar fall from his mouth. It bounced off his knee and rolled across the ground before vanishing.

McCree pulled back his hand, his eyes wide. “What in the Sam Hill?” 

“My apologies,” Hanzo said. “I suspected that might happen. I have found with time that while we can influence the world around us with some effort, we cannot affect each other—not that I have met anyone like you before.”

“You’ve met other ghosts, but you ain’t never met anyone like me?” McCree repeated, his disbelief giving way to strained teasing. “A man could take that the wrong way.”

Hanzo pointedly turned his head to stare off into the distance. “Have you met any spirits?”

“No. You’re the first.”

Hanzo nodded to himself. “All the others I have met were faded with time and regret. Mere echoes. They go through the motions of their lives without realizing the world has left them behind.” Hanzo allowed himself a sigh. “I had hoped that this time would be different.”

“So we’re ghosts even to other ghosts,” McCree said. He let out a shaky, unneeded breath that died in a pained chuckle. “That’s…”

McCree didn’t seem to have words to express how he felt, but Hanzo knew. He remembered. “It is like realizing you are dead all over again.”

“Yeah.” 

McCree was silent for some time. He lit a new cigar before tucking his case away in his breast pocket. He held the cigar between his fingers as he puffed at it, letting the memory of old habits soothe his nerves. Just as Hanzo began to wonder if he ought to leave McCree in peace and return to the house, McCree sat up straight and stubbed out his cigar on the bottom of his boot. 

“Sorry about that. Here you been waiting patiently on me, and I’ve been off in my own thoughts. I promised you a story.”

“You did,” Hanzo agreed with a nod. “But you do not need to do it tonight. I can come back tomorrow.”

“Don’t be silly. A story’ll do us both some good.”

McCree rolled his shoulders and stretched. When he settled again, the tension had fled, and his easy smile had returned like the first rays of sun after the rain. “Now, for you to understand, you need to know that once there was a time when there weren’t no men on this earth. This world, the Fifth World, was all darkness and water. Our story begins in the First World with the birth of First Man and First Woman.” 

McCree’s words flowed together, rolling over Hanzo and drawing him down into a black world where clouds became beings and where crystals and turquoise were burned to make fire. He spoke of forces of nature and animals as if they were people. These people climbed through the ceiling of the world again and again into places of new colors and new creatures. Everything was black and blue, yellow and white, sacred colors and holy people and cleansing cornmeal. McCree was animated in his storytelling, using his hand to trace shapes in the air, beckoning Hanzo to lean close when he spoke lowly and tossing his head back with delight whenever a character did something particularly clever. 

By the time McCree reached the story of how the stars came to be, the moon had nearly sunk below the hills in the distance.

“It will be dawn soon,” Hanzo said softly. The reluctance in his own voice surprised him. He looked over and realized he and McCree had shifted closer during the night, their shoulders nearly brushing as they leaned towards each other. Now that he was paying attention, Hanzo could feel the spiritual pressure against the back of his arm, insistent and gently tingling. Why hadn’t McCree said anything? Hanzo slowly straightened, drawing his arm to his side self-consciously.

McCree regarded the eastern horizon with a steady gaze. “You’re right. It’s not here yet, but it’s comin’. Still, we got time enough for one last story, if you’ll let me steal you from your work a lil longer.”

Hanzo pretended to think it over, but he already knew his answer. He waved a hand. “You may continue.”

McCree chuckled. “So long’s I’ve got your permission. Now, let’s see. The sun and moon had been carved and decorated, pinned to the sky with bolts of lightnin’, and given spirits so they could move across the sky and spread their light, guided by the eagle tail feathers given to them by First Man.

“With two lights in the sky, that would’ve been enough, but when First Woman returned to the blanket where she and her helpers’d carved the sun and moon out of quartz, she found that they’d left behind a bunch o’ smaller pieces along with the dust from their carving. She didn’t like to let things go to waste, so she took up her flint knife and chisel, and she shaped the smaller pieces into stars. 

“Once all the stars were finished, First Woman said, “I know what I will do. I will use these to write the laws of mankind. I cannot write these laws in the river as the water is always changing its form, and I cannot write them in the sand as the wind will sweep them away. If I use these stars to write them in the sky, they can be read forever so that mankind will always know how to live good lives.”

“First Woman drew patterns on the ground for all the constellations. One of the largest stars she chose to set in the northern sky to guide travelers. She called it the Campfire of the North, and two constellations, a man and a woman, were set on either side of it. They would move around the campfire, never leaving it. She also set aside four other stars: three for the other directions and one for the center. 

“Now Fire Man took up his bow and shot two crooked fire arrows into the sky, creating a crooked ladder.” McCree cut a zigzag shape up into the air with his hand. “He carried each star up in his arms and set it in the night sky, then gave it a light from the torch strapped to his arm, that way all the stars could find their way in the darkness.

“My grandma taught me these stories; she could tell you ‘bout all the constellations hung up there. Sad to say, I only remember a few, so you’ll have to settle for what I can manage. There’s the Thunderbird, the Harvester, there’s a constellation that hides durin’ planting time—oh, and the rabbit tracks. There’s two sets of ‘em. When the open end points up, you’re not supposed to hunt. When the open end tilts toward the earth, that’s when hunting season starts.” 

McCree pointed up to the stars. Hanzo leaned in. The sky was lightening, so the stars were becoming more difficult to see, but he thought he knew which cluster of stars McCree meant. He’d grown up calling them the brother stars. 

“I see,” Hanzo said, straightening. “So the stars mark the times of the year to farm and hunt. They truly are instructions for how to live.”

“More than that, they remind us to be good. There’s stars in the shape of elders who remind us the value of family, solidarity, strength, wisdom.” McCree cracked a wry smile. “I was never much good at listenin’ to my elders. Preferred to forge my own path, for better or for worse. Always had to learn the hard way when I was wrong ‘bout something.”

Hanzo balled his hands into fists in his lap. “Perhaps in this way, we are alike.”

“Not much for doin’ what you were told?”

“No, I obeyed and respected my elders, as is expected of any honorable young man.” If only his clan had been as honorable. So many things could have been different. 

McCree, unaware of Hanzo’s inner turmoil, barked out a laugh. “You callin’ me dishonorable?”

“I don’t know. Are you?”

“Disreputable, maybe, but I’d like to think I have some honor.”

Hanzo allowed himself a thin smile. The man was clever with his words. He noticed McCree watching him; he turned his face away, suddenly keenly aware of himself. With measured casualness, he said, “You should return to your story. Daylight is approaching.”

“Suppose you’re right. And there’s so much left to tell.” McCree leaned back and stretched out his legs. “Placing all those stars in the sky was slow work. Fire Man could only carry a few at a time, and that ladder was tall as anything. While he an’ First Woman worked, Coyote came along. He watched a while ‘fore he approached First Woman. He pointed to a large star still left on the blanket an’ asked if he could have it. First Woman told him he could, and to place it in the sky over his mountain to the south. When it glowed bright, it’d mark Coyote’s mating season. 

“After he’d climbed up an’ hung his star in the sky, Coyote came back to First Woman. “This is taking too long,” he said. “I can help, if you’ll let me. The work will go twice as fast then.” 

“First Woman answered, “You are always in a hurry. You’re impatient, Coyote, and you leave things half-done. You make mistakes, and then there is trouble.”

“Coyote promised he would do what First Woman said and follow her pattern exactly. Eventually, First Woman gave in. “See these two stars?” she said, and she pointed to two pieces of quartz that looked exactly th’ same. “They are the Twins. Place them in the West; they will walk across the sky hand in hand.”

“Coyote had seen Fire Man carrying armfuls of stars, so he figured he could do the same. He picked up a star in each paw and started t’ climb. It was a tricky thing, and halfway up, Coyote made the mistake of lookin’ down. It was a looong way to the ground. Coyote got so dizzy, he nearly fell. He shifted both stars to his left paw so he could grab the ladder better and hurried up so he could be done. 

“When Coyote reached the place where the two stars went, he looked down only to realize he couldn’t tell ‘em apart. Hopin’ for the best, Coyote closed his eyes an’ guessed. With one star in his left paw an’ one in his right, he placed them in the sky.”

McCree paused, his words hanging in the air. Hanzo saw his mouth twist into a pained grimace, and he realized what must have happened. McCree confirmed his suspicions: “He’d guessed wrong. There was a horrible grinding noise as the stars tried t’ pass over each other to get to where they belonged. There was nothin’ for it, though, so Coyote climbed back down while the stars crossed and found their proper paths.

“First Woman was right vexed when Coyote came back. “Look what you’ve done,” she cried. “The Twins were meant to bring peace to the people of the earth. Now they’ll cause conflict and strife that’ll plague this world forever. I won’t have you help anymore.”

“Coyote grumbled that it wasn’t his fault, but First Woman wouldn’t hear it, so he slunk off.

“All the while, Fire Man was hard at work placing the constellations. The laws and the elders had been first. Now came the animals: the birds, the insects, the fish, and all the creatures that walk the earth. 

“Finally, First Woman turned to her blanket and found that there were no more stones large enough t’ make proper stars. There were plenty o’ bits and pieces, though, so she gave these to Fire Man. He threw them against the night sky in glistening clusters, handful by handful. They represent th’ fire carrying creatures, like fireflies and glowworms.”

McCree tilted his head so the brim of his hat tipped up, and he caught Hanzo’s eye. There was a glint of mischief in that look.

“While Fire Man was climbin’ down the zigzag ladder and First Woman’s back was turned, Coyote snuck back over. He’d watched from a distance all this time, growin’ restless the longer the work went on, and now he had himself an idea. Coyote grabbed hold o’ First Woman’s blanket by two corners, and with all his strength, he swung it through the air, throwing stardust into the sky in a great arc from one horizon to the other.” McCree’s hand swept across the river of stars that flowed overhead. 

“Coyote was proud of himself, right up ‘til he saw First Woman’s face. She was heartbroken an’ furious all at once. “How could you do this?” she cried. “You always sow chaos. You cannot be patient or listen and do as you’re told. Because of your handiwork, the people will not be able to read the laws I wrote for them. Each generation, a man will have to be trained to read the stars so he can teach the laws to his tribe.” First Woman shook her head and sent Coyote away, but what was done was done. To this day, the stars remain in the night sky where they were fixed, whether by design or accident. And that’s how we got the Milky Way.”

“The Milky Way,” Hanzo repeated, the words sounding almost like a question. 

“That’s what most folks call it anyhow.” Something changed then. McCree’s expression shifted as if a cloud had crept across the sun. In a quiet voice, he said, “She called it somethin’ different. I can’t remember the word… I should know it. What was it?” 

McCree was still sitting there, but suddenly it seemed that he was somewhere else. Hanzo held his tongue. The way McCree looked through him was unsettling, his gaze unfocused and distant. His eyes reminded Hanzo of the hollow ache in his own chest that had driven him from the house. He wanted to help, but he wasn’t sure how, so he sat and waited, silently willing McCree to shake this strange mood.

McCree’s mouth worked, and finally words came out again. “I can’t remember, but it meant… it meant Waiting for Dawn.” 

“Who is waiting?” Hanzo asked. “The stars?”

McCree gave the barest shake of his head. “We are.”

Hanzo started and looked to the eastern horizon where the lightening blue of the sky was turning a burnished orange with traces of blushing pink. The sun was nearly up. 

McCree continued, “Just before the dawn: that’s when we’re meant to pray. Coyote made Waiting for Dawn by mistake, but the people gave it meaning. It’s the corn pollen we spread out when we pray and reflect on who we are. The stars are meant to remind us.” As he spoke, his voice grew stronger, and the furrow of his brow eased. 

“It has been a long time since I prayed,” Hanzo said. “I do not think it would do me much good now.”

When he met McCree’s gaze, Hanzo was relieved to see warmth there again. McCree even ventured to grace him with a wan smile. “You and me both.” 

Day broke, swift yet gentle. The sun cast the first rays of light across the desert, chasing away the lingering twilight.

McCree let out a sigh, stretched, and rubbed at the back of his neck. “I should let ya go now. You’ve got work to do.”

“You are correct,” Hanzo said, wishing it wasn’t true. But McCree’s story was over, and with it, the fragile mood that had settled over them. They were back in the real world now, everything a little too sharp and bright in the wake of McCree’s dreamlike stories. 

Hanzo stood and took stock of himself. He adjusted the folds of his pristine clothes while McCree brushed imaginary dirt from his trousers. Rituals borne of habit. 

Hanzo’s fingers lingered at the seam of his sleeve as a thought came to him, and he spoke before he could overthink it. “The Milky Way. Where I come from, we call it a different name: Amanogawa. River of Heaven. There is a story about it.”

“Oh?”

Hanzo fixed his obi instead of looking over, but he could hear the interest plain in McCree’s voice. It was clear that he, too, wanted an excuse to speak again. It made the next words easier. “Tomorrow night. I will meet you here, and I will tell it to you.” 

Hanzo turned to face McCree and bowed. McCree started, then snatched the hat from his head and returned the gesture. The motion was graceless, but Hanzo appreciated it nonetheless. 

“Good night, McCree.”

“Good mornin’, you mean.”

Hanzo snorted. “_Goodbye_.”

“Till tomorrow night.”   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Information for curious readers:
> 
> \- Teetotalism is the practice of complete abstinence from alcohol, usually religiously motivated. Teetotalism as a movement started in the early 19th century.  
\- The earliest recorded instances of asthma date back to 2600 BCE China. It is also cited in texts from Ancient Egypt, Babylonia, and Ancient Greece. [History of Asthma [Part One](https://asthma.net/living/history-of-asthma-part-one-in-the-beginning/) and [Part Two](https://asthma.net/living/history-of-asthma-part-2-modern-history/)]  
\- The story of the Sun, Moon, and Stars that I referenced for this chapter can be found [HERE](https://www.firstpeople.us/FP-Html-Legends/TheSunMoonandStars-Navajo.html). The original is far more expansive and detailed, so if you liked McCree’s story, I recommend checking out the link.  
\- Additional references I used for the constellations [[1]](http://www.angelfire.com/rock3/countryboy79/navajo_astronomy.html) [[2]](https://www.raritanval.edu/sites/default/files/aa_PDF%20Files/6.x%20Community%20Resources/6.4.5_SD.10.NavajoSkies.pdf)  
\- [HERE](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4X04IjCTSUQ&feature=youtu.be&t=989) is a Navajo language lesson video focusing on the constellations. I’m linking specifically to the portion talking about the Milky Way because the teacher talks about the meaning and purpose of It Waits for Dawn.  
\- Finally, [HERE](https://www.coloradocollege.edu/dotAsset/44c82cd0-cbb2-4297-9b40-15bd46552c2a.pdf) is a link to an academic paper about the sacred nature of corn pollen. I looked it up to make sure I understood its meaning and importance in Navajo culture.  
\- Lambda and Upsilon Scorpii are the two stars called the “brother stars” in Japanese tradition.


	4. Tell Me Something I Don't Know

It was Matteo’s first day at his new school. Hanzo watched Ichiro make bag lunches while Rosa chased after a certain little boy who seemed adamant on going to class in his pajamas. 

After watching Matteo ring the couch several times and slip under the coffee table, neatly escaping his poor mother, Hanzo decided to intervene. Ducking into Matteo’s room, he flicked a finger and switched a little toy radio on. It was red and played ten different children’s songs, all of which Matteo had learned to sing to. Hanzo picked the most annoying one to catch his attention. 

The closet door was open. Rosa had laid out clothes on the bed: a light blue shirt, cargo pants, plain socks, and some white velcro shoes. She wanted Matteo to look nice on his first day, and Hanzo respected that, but a good leader had to know when to make concessions in order to achieve more important goals. 

Hanzo plucked a red hoodie from the closet. It had a cartoonish, spotted puppy on it. He laid it on the bed beside the first outfit, then added Matteo’s favorite orange basketball shorts (he liked the swishing sound the legs made when he ran), a pair of socks with turtles on them, and red sneakers. 

Matteo ran into the room a moment later, skidding in his socks and nearly missing the door. He looked to the radio first, then the bed. Hanzo saw the moment he spotted the clothes and his eyes lit up. 

Matteo ran over and slapped his hands onto the red hoodie just as Rosa appeared in the doorway. “This! I wanna wear this!” Matteo declared. 

Rosa faltered. “Matty.” 

Matteo fisted his little hands in the hoodie. “I want this!”

Rosa sighed. “All right, fine. If it makes you happy.” 

Matteo was already yanking his sleep shirt off before Rosa finished speaking. He got stuck with his hands up in the air and the shirt around his head. When he couldn’t free himself, he finally stumbled his way over to his mother for help.

Satisfied that order had been restored, Hanzo returned to Ichiro’s side to ensure he stayed on schedule. 

The kitchen window was like a set of eyes at Hanzo’s back. He attempted to ignore it, but it seemed the more he tried, the more his thoughts wandered in that direction. Was McCree out there right now? Did he go other places when he wasn’t lazing about under the cottonwood tree? He tended to stay near the stream and had never come into the house, but Hanzo had no idea what his limitations were. 

Hanzo refused to look and see if he was out there. 

He never should have made that promise. McCree was sure to expect some grand, sprawling epic like the story he himself had told. By comparison, the trite little children’s tale that Hanzo and his brother had grown up with was hardly worth the time it took to tell—and it took no more than a few minutes at that. It was a paltry offering after what McCree had shared.

Hanzo was shaken from his thoughts by Matteo rushing into the kitchen to grab his lunch. Rosa followed behind with his backpack.

“That’s not the outfit you showed me,” Ichiro said. 

Rosa gave an exasperated shrug as she handed the backpack over. “He picked it out himself. The important thing is he’s dressed.”

“That is pretty important. Okay, Matty, ready to go? Are you driving me to work today?” Ichiro asked.

Matteo looked up in confusion. “What?”

“You’re driving me to work, aren’t you?”

“Nooo. You gotta take me to school.”

“You sure?”

“Yes!” Matteo jumped up and down. “I gotta—I gotta go to school.”

“Okay then.” Ichiro grabbed his own bag and leaned in to kiss his wife. “We’ll see you tonight. I’ll bring home dinner; you relax.”

“You charmer. You always know just what to say,” Rosa teased. “I love you. Drive safe.”

Hanzo followed Ichiro and his son outside to the car. Hanzo had always found cars to be somewhat strange and unnerving. They were loud and fast, and every year they became more alien-looking. He’d been around when they first started appearing on the roads. It began with handcrafted novelties resembling carriages for the wealthy, then mass-produced military trucks and motorcycles. Hanzo remembered the day Kenji—Ichiro’s grandfather—bought a car for his family. Everyone had been so excited about the rumbling machine, white and lustrous like a lacquer box, controlled using a wheel and a few levers and pedals. Hanzo had never warmed up to them, personally. Maybe he was biased, though. He still hadn’t completely forgiven himself for the car accident that left Kenji with chronic back pain—nevermind that there was nothing he could have done to stop it. 

Hanzo hovered protectively while Ichiro strapped Matteo in his seat, and he watched like a hawk as Ichiro buckled in. There’d been times in the past that Ichiro forgot, but Hanzo never did. He would lock the key in place or refuse to let the engine turn over. Once, he laid on the horn until Ichiro turned off the car and jumped out. The mechanic at the shop insisted nothing was wrong with it. Ichiro and Rosa joked about the car being haunted. If only they knew.

Hanzo followed the car down to the end of the driveway where it met a winding dirt road that would eventually lead out to the highway. He lingered by the mailbox and watched until the car was out of sight.

Since arriving in New Mexico, Hanzo had been methodically testing how far he could stray from his sword. There was no hard and fast rule—no set distance so much as a vague sense of place. Hanzo could be anywhere that was “here,” but could not go “there.”

When Genji had graciously brought him into his home, he’d found himself in a honmune-zukuri style farmhouse in the country with a large, walled-in yard and plots of farmland all around. Hanzo was free to roam all that the Shimada family considered their own, but found that somewhere just past the fields, he could go no farther. Something in him knew when he had reached his limit. He could fight it, but even a few steps beyond that left him feeling thin. A few steps more, and his thoughts would scatter like autumn leaves. He would awaken sometime later, always kneeling before his own sword. 

When Shinta and Misako moved into their apartment, Hanzo had felt like a prisoner, limited to the apartment and its balcony window where Misako hung the laundry to dry. It was difficult to fight the restlessness and lethargy that plagued him by turns. As the couple settled into their home, his range expanded to the second-floor walkway outside. Once they had Ichiro, and he had grown big enough to start playing outside with friends from around the neighborhood, Hanzo discovered he could travel the entire length of block 15 and the streets surrounding it. 

With a new home came new boundaries. To the south, the property was hemmed in by the road, which proved as impassible for Hanzo as a river swollen by the spring melt. To the west stood the skeletal remains of a fence. The broken, sun-bleached wood posts may as well have been a solid wall. Hanzo was still testing the north side. It was difficult to tell where the property ended; the fencing was completely gone, and the fields were open to the plains and rustling brush. He had not ventured east yet. He’d been wary of encroaching on McCree’s space, at least until last night. 

Last night, for the first time in over a century, Hanzo had enjoyed a real conversation. In the moment, he’d felt almost alive. Now, in the light of day, it all seemed like a dream. If not for the fact that Hanzo wouldn’t credit himself with such a wild imagination, he might have convinced himself that it never really happened. But he remembered the dented cigarette case, the static along the back of his arm from leaning too close, the way the moonlight played across McCree’s face, the hopeful note in his voice at Hanzo’s promise. He couldn’t have invented that. 

Hanzo quickly retreated to the house. 

The day came and went, dragging painfully slow in Hanzo’s opinion, yet by the time night came and everyone was settled in bed preparing for sleep, he still had no idea what to say to McCree. He drifted through the house, checking the windows and the doors to make sure everything was locked. 

He was being foolish. He knew that. He had conquered countless rivals and enemies, led his clan through the Boshin War, and faced his own death without fear. Why should he care what some American thought of his storytelling skills?

The sound of something small hitting the window gave Hanzo pause. He turned in time to catch sight of the second pebble as it bounced off the glass. He hurried over and phased through the wall out into the night air. 

The moon, pale and gleaming like the inside of a polished shell, bathed the world in its cool light. Thin wisps of cloud trailed across the sky. 

Under the brim of his hat, McCree’s face was nothing more than shadow and a crooked smile. He rolled a small stone between his fingers idly.

Hanzo squared his shoulders and attempted to radiate disapproval. “You could have woken someone.”

“Did I?”

Hanzo deepened his frown pointedly. “Luckily for you, you did not.”

“Knew you were protective, but don’t you think yer bein’ a bit of a mother hen?”

Hanzo gaped. What had he just called him? 

McCree seemed to realize he’d misstepped. He sheepishly dropped the stone he’d been playing with as he averted his gaze. He cleared his throat. “Sorry.”

Awkward silence threatened to descend over them. This was not how tonight was meant to go. 

Hanzo needed to remember that he and McCree hardly knew each other. This was like forming a working relationship with another clan—something he was far more familiar with. When meeting representatives for the first time, Hanzo could reasonably expect one or both of them to accidentally offend the other. Part of being a good leader was being able to judge which mistakes could be forgiven and which should be taken as an insult or challenge. Add into the equation the fact that McCree came from a different culture and that this wasn’t a business deal. Hanzo needed to adjust his expectations and show a little flexibility.

Besides, perhaps he was a bit…overprotective at times. 

Hanzo relaxed his posture and gestured with his hand in the direction of the house. “It is Matteo’s first week of school. He has to catch up with the rest of the class and make a good impression with the other children. I want him to get enough rest.”

Rather than teasing him, McCree looked politely interested. “Didn’t realize. Guess that explains him and his pa headin’ out this morning. How’s that goin’? He seems like a lil firecracker; I’m sure his classmates’ll take to him quick.”

Oh. Not politely interested. Actually interested. 

Hanzo reined in his surprise. “Firecracker: an apt description. He’s the sort of child that has to try everything at least once, especially if it’s something he knows he shouldn’t do.”

“I can relate. There’s a phrase—what was it?” McCree snapped his fingers as it came to him. “A smart man learns from his mistakes; a wise man learns from others’.”

“So you’re saying you are a smart man rather than a wise man.”

McCree let out a laugh. “I reckon there’s folks who’d argue I’m neither.”

“Given the state of things, I might agree with them,” Hanzo said, gesturing to McCree. 

McCree’s smile twisted wryly. “Funny, comin’ from you. I assume you’re just here visitin’ for the nice weather then.”

Hanzo’s mouth worked as he struggled to come up with a retort. “We are not discussing my circumstances. I knew what I was doing when I did it.” Something shifted in McCree’s expression briefly, gone too fast to interpret. Hanzo continued, “The question was whether or not you are a smart man, and smart men do not usually die young.”

“Smart men die all the time. They die younger than me, and they die for less than I did. Besides, I wouldn’t peg you for being more than a year or two older yerself. Seems we’re right back where we started. We’re either both smart, or we’re both stupid.”

Hanzo struggled to find some hole in McCree’s logic. What a ridiculous argument to be having.

McCree shifted his weight, his posture radiating cockiness. “You ready to concede?”

Hanzo lifted his chin and gave McCree an even look. “I concede nothing. However, I am willing to let the matter rest for the moment. I did not come here to argue.”

“Where do you usually go?”

“… I don’t have to tell you a story tonight,” Hanzo deadpanned. 

McCree raised a hand placatingly, his expression one of instant contrition. “Sorry, sorry.” He stepped to the side and held his arm out as if to usher Hanzo towards the old cottonwood tree.

Hanzo took the lead with McCree trailing behind on his right. Neither of them made a sound—no footsteps, no rustle of fabric, no breaths. The world around them made plenty of noise all on its own. The owl had returned tonight; it sat in a different tree, hooting occasionally. By the creek, insects chirped to each other. The wind in the dry brush was a constant white noise that, during the day, was unnoticeable, but in the dark quiet of the night, it echoed and amplified as it rushed across the open land. 

“The wind.”

“Hm?”

“It sounds like the ocean,” Hanzo said quietly.

“I’ll take your word for it.”

McCree sat down heavily, back against the trunk of the tree. He patted the ground at his side, just like he had the night before, inviting Hanzo to sit with him.

Hanzo regarded his companion for a long moment before turning away instead. Hands clasped behind his back, he paced a short distance before turning on his heel. He had McCree’s complete attention. He sought to grasp the words he needed to begin his story, but they proved evasive, slipping away just when he thought he had them. Eventually, he confessed, “I do not know where to start.”

McCree rubbed at his chin. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

Hanzo was silent for a moment. A single sentence drifted lazily to the forefront of his mind, and he latched on. “There is a palace on the moon.”

He knew he had something when he saw McCree’s eyes go wide. Now to cast his net. Still unsure what, exactly, he would say, Hanzo tried to picture the palace in his mind. “You cannot see it from here. It exists on the other side of the moon: a massive complex of the most beautiful buildings, connected by covered walkways and winding stone paths that cut through gardens of rippling sand. If you stand on the western wall, you cannot see the eastern wall, it is so grand a palace. And all of it is carved from white stone that gleams with star light. 

“The moon palace is home to King Tentei, the emperor of the heavens. He has many servants, wives, and children who all live in the palace with him. It would be wrong to say that Tentei favors any one child over the others, but there is one dutiful daughter who brings him great joy with the skill of her weaving: Orihime.”

Here, Hanzo paused. He knew what he was supposed to say: _There was a time when Orihime, sitting on the bank of the Heavenly River and dutifully weaving beautiful clothing for the gods, despaired that she would never marry. Thus King Tentei arranged for her to meet Hikoboshi, the cow herder. Upon meeting, they fell in love instantly. _

Hanzo could see that McCree was listening raptly. He’d begun to pull out his cigar case, but it now sat forgotten on his thigh with his hand laid over it loosely. He thought about the way McCree had told his story the night before—rich and colorful and alive.

No one had ever accused Hanzo of possessing a creative spirit. In fact, his brother had said much the opposite on at least one occasion. That being the case, he could come up with no explanation for what he said next.

“She is beautiful, with skin as pale as moonlight and hair black as night. Her eyes glitter like stars, ancient and yet bright with curiosity. Her jūnihitoe—a gown of many layers of the finest silks—is dyed the colors of early dusk. At her sleeves and collar where the layers are revealed, one can see the blushing rays of the setting sun against white clouds, shrouded over by the deepening blues of the night sky. 

“What truly sets Orihime apart from the other gods is the cleverness of her hands. Orihime has no equal when it comes to her craft. Her quarters are surrounded by a garden of mulberry trees where her ladies-in-waiting tend to golden silkworms that spin cocoons in all the colors of the rainbow. These cocoons are boiled, brushed, and finally spun into thread which Orihime weaves into cloth on her loom sitting by the bank of the Heavenly River.” Hanzo swept his arm in an arc as he indicated the great swath of stars overhead.

“The silks made on Orihime’s loom are so fine and light that if you were to lay them on the ground, they would not bend a single blade of grass, yet the weave is so tight that no light can pass through. All the gods and goddesses are clothed in her silks, which are so valued as to rival the treasures of the Dragon Palace beneath the sea.”

“I’m sorry, the what?” McCree interrupted. 

A bit of mischievous joy curled in Hanzo’s chest. He made a noise as if he had truly forgotten McCree didn’t already know. “The palace of Ryūjin, the dragon of the sea who controls the tides. The palace itself is made of red and white coral, and it is decorated with gold, jade, and massive pearls, so you can imagine the wonders kept in the treasure rooms deep at its heart. But I will tell you more another time,” Hanzo said with a little shake of his head, pleased at the expression on McCree’s face: briefly disappointed at being denied yet eager for more.

“Orihime’s weaving was the pride of her father,” Hanzo said, returning to his story, “yet he worried for her. She dedicated all of her time to her work, which left her with none for herself. And though she was often surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting, he saw that she was lonely.

“Tentei considered arranging a marriage for Orihime. He knew that if he ordered it, she would marry whomever he chose and would be content, but this would not bring her the happiness she deserved. One day, he invited her to have tea with him. They sat on the engawa of his personal quarters and admired the garden ponds where giant koi danced beneath the surface of the water, half-hidden beneath lotus flowers that bloomed all year round. While his esteemed daughter poured tea for them, Tentei told her about a place on the other bank of the Heavenly River which was most exquisite. 

“Here, on the other side of the river, all things are mortal—imperfect and fleeting in their existence. But, you see, that is what makes them beautiful. Time does not exist for gods. The moon may hide its face, but it never changes. The transient, bittersweet beauty of our world cannot be compared to anything in the heavens.” 

The irony of a ghost speaking about impermanence was not lost on Hanzo. If anything, his century and a half of immortality had only convinced him of this truth. Looking at McCree’s soft and open expression, he suspected the sentiment was shared. 

“King Tentei described a place beside the river where birds sang in the reeds and fruit trees stood with outstretched branches in rich, jade-green fields. Wildflowers like jewels grew among the grasses, enticing noisy bees and the most magnificent butterflies. He told his daughter, “It would please me if you would make a robe for me in this place. Surely its beauty would inspire you.”

“The next day, Orihime instructed her ladies-in-waiting to move her loom to the place King Tentei had described. They ferried the loom across in pieces using boats made of carved, gleaming oyster shells drawn by flocks of magpies which Tentei had sent. On the opposite bank, in the shade of a flowering tree, Orihime sat at her loom and began to work, unaware of her father’s plans.

“Tentei had scoured the world in search of someone worthy of his daughter’s hand; he found Hikoboshi. Hikoboshi was not wealthy, nor did he hold any title. He was not a politician or a warrior or a philosopher. He was a simple cowherd. However, Hikoboshi was pure of heart and possessed a noble spirit rivaling that of an immortal. Tentei saw in him a man who would love and honor his daughter as she deserved, and so he had sent her, unknowing, to the fields where Hikoboshi grazed his cows.”

Here, Hanzo’s unexpected well of creativity suddenly ran dry. He wavered. “The way I have always heard the story told, they fell in love instantly.” 

“You don’t sound too keen on that bit.” 

“I have nothing against it,” Hanzo said as he walked back over to the tree where his companion sat. “It is… poetic: the idea that two people can love so deeply and truly upon first meeting, as if they were always meant to be together.”

“But?”

Hanzo sighed and settled in the dry grass beside McCree. “It’s boring.”

McCree snorted. “So what should we do ‘bout it?”

“What do you mean?”

McCree pulled out one of his cigars and lit it. “I mean”—He jokingly offered the case up to Hanzo, his smile crooked around the end of his cigar—“How did they really fall in love?”

Hanzo regarded the case thoughtfully. The memory of tobacco smoke in his nose was strong enough that he almost thought he was really smelling it as the phantom wisps of McCree’s cigar curled around him. Could he—? Hanzo reached for his obi, and his hand closed around a thin bamboo case and leather pouch. 

Pleased with himself, Hanzo withdrew the kiseru case and set it in his lap. Aside from his bow, Hanzo was rarely capable of summoning objects. He suspected they had to be personal effects closely tied to his identity. He didn’t consider smoking integral to his person and thus had never summoned his kiseru before. Now, though, he fondly recalled smoking in the company of others on summer nights, sitting in rooms with the sliding doors open wide to let in the cool breeze. The experience was usually a quiet one; his chosen companions were typically aware he preferred silence. Genji was the exception, but his younger brother was happy to do most if not all of the talking, so Hanzo didn’t mind. 

As if performing a ceremony, Hanzo opened and laid everything out on the ground in front of him. McCree watched with obvious fascination as a short tube of bamboo was set aside to hold ashes; then a small, shallow metal bowl with a lid and tongs; a packet of finely shredded tobacco; and finally the kiseru, removed from its case. The kiseru was a gift—Hanzo could not remember from whom. It boasted a dark red, lacquered bamboo stem capped at either end with a silver bowl and mouthpiece, both engraved with scenes of forested mountains. 

Lifting the lid of the metal bowl revealed it was filled with sand, a glowing ember nestled on top. Hanzo didn’t question this. He pulled out a pinch of kizami-tabako, rolling it between his fingers into a ball, then pressed it into the bowl of the kiseru. Cradling the kiseru stem between the meat of his thumb and his curled fingers, Hanzo lit it with the ember. The memory of tobacco smoke on his tongue burst to life, vibrant and satisfying. It was almost like truly experiencing it again. So that was why McCree was so fond of his cigars. 

Hanzo sighed as he settled into the familiar motions of smoking and let his mind wander back to his story. 

“Who do you think fell in love first?” Hanzo asked his companion.

“Me?” McCree pursed his lips around the end of his cigar, then blew out a plume of smoke. “I think it was Hikoboshi.”

“Because of Orihime’s beauty,” Hanzo guessed.

“Because Orihime’s busy weaving,” McCree corrected. “Hikoboshi ain’t got much to do but keep his cows from wanderin’. He’d notice her first.”

Hanzo hummed as he tapped ash from his pipe and refilled it with fresh tobacco. “I agree. What, then, could Hikoboshi do to make Orihime notice him? It would have to be something clever.”

“Or unexpectedly kind. You said that’s why Tentei chose him.”

“Hm.” Hanzo thought on that. “Perhaps both.” He finished the tobacco in his pipe and set it aside for the moment. He gathered himself to continue the story. 

“Hikoboshi left for the fields with his cows early in the morning before the last star had vanished from the sky, yet he found that someone had arrived before him. Beneath the boughs of a blossoming tree, he saw the most breathtaking maiden he had ever seen working at a loom which had miraculously appeared overnight. As he watched, her hands danced among the threads, the shuttle flying across the warp like a bird in flight, each time narrowly avoiding the beater which swung back and forth to strike the weft into place. 

“The silk taking form beneath the maiden’s hands was beyond description. The images of flowers were real enough to smell. The river flowing down the back of the robe rippled in the light. The birds looked ready to take flight. Then Hikoboshi noticed the maiden’s expression. Her brow was pinched in concentration. Her mouth was set. Her pale skin glistened with sweat. She seemed not to notice him at all, and Hikoboshi did not dare interrupt her focus.

“The two of them worked side by side all day, not speaking a word. As evening approached, it became clear the robe was nearly complete, and Hikoboshi suspected that once it was, he would never see the mysterious maiden again. He had to do something. 

“The maiden did not glance at Hikoboshi when he approached. Her hands slowed when he knelt by her side, but still, she continued to weave. Then he bowed deeply to her, his forehead touching the ground and his hands clasped together. She stilled. Hikoboshi apologized for interrupting her work and asked her to forgive him. He told her that it would be his honor if he might be allowed to invite her into his home and share a meal with her, unworthy as he was.”

McCree made an amused sound. Hanzo fixed him with a patient but serious look until McCree’s amusement faded. “You do not understand the significance. This is dogeza. It is important where I am from, in the time that I lived. Hikoboshi was showing deference to Orihime. She was almost certainly of much higher status than him, yet he chose to trouble her with his presence and boldly asked a favor of her; because he apologized in this way, she was permitted to forgive him and accept his request. It would not have been appropriate otherwise.”

“I see,” McCree said. “A sight more civilized than threatening a man the first time you meet ‘im. Don’t suppose you’ll apologize for that any time soon.” The glowing cherry at the end of his cigar revealed the flash of his teeth as he grinned.

“I would have to regret it first,” Hanzo replied smoothly. 

“Well then, I won’t hold my breath.” McCree blew out a plume of smoke. “Carry on. I’m guessing Orihime agreed to dinner, otherwise this wouldn’t be much of a story.”

“She did. Proper introductions were made, and Orihime followed Hikoboshi back to his modest home. It was a small hut of bamboo and straw with a cooking fire in the middle of the floor. Here, Hikoboshi cooked a meal for them both.”

Hanzo thought back to his time watching over Genji’s family in their farmhouse. Mealtimes were his favorite part of the day. The house always came alive then. Everyone bustled around the hearth like busy bees, laughing and shouting as they navigated around each other, passing out brown earthenware bowls of food—simple but hearty meals made with fresh, seasonal ingredients. 

“Hikoboshi prepared simmered bamboo shoots, mixed rice and barley, wild mushrooms, and boiled edamame—soybean pods. He also presented his guest with a small, sweet orange he had received as payment for a day’s work. While it was not grand, this meal was like nothing Orihime had ever had before. She also recognized that Hikoboshi was sharing the best of all that he had to offer. His kindness was not lost on her.

“Orihime stayed late into the evening, but eventually she had to depart. The next morning, Hikoboshi took his cows to graze, his heart heavy at knowing he would never see Orihime again. Imagine his surprise, then, when he arrived and found her sitting beneath the flowering tree at her loom. The night before, when Orihime’s attendants had come to retrieve her, she had sent them away; she told them she was not satisfied with the robe she had made. It now hung from a branch overhead as she diligently worked to create a new length of silk.

“Hikoboshi and Orihime spent the day working side by side just as before, and when the sun began to set, Hikoboshi prostrated himself once again and invited Orihime to join him for dinner. He cooked the best of what he had, and after their meal, he recited poetry.”

“Poetry,” McCree said. There was no judgement, but perhaps a little surprise.

“Yes. Poetry is integral to Japanese culture. I learned to compose waka, haiku, and haibun as part of my education. Though we were not nobility, my clan was powerful and respected; it was important to present a refined image.”

“I wouldn’t mind hearin’ some o’ your poetry.”

“Another time, perhaps. Back to the story: On the third morning, uncertain but hopeful, Hikoboshi returned to the field to once again find Orihime weaving. As the shuttle flew and the beater swung, Orihime declared that she did not think she would be satisfied with this new robe either, but she would not know until she was done. 

“Hikoboshi bowed deeply and invited Orihime to eat dinner with him again. He had traded his neighbor some rice for a bowl of strawberries—the first of the spring—in the hopes of sharing them with her.

“And so they continued in this way for seven days and seven nights. On the fourth night, Hikoboshi played music on a flute he had carved himself from bamboo. On the fifth night, he sang the sweetest songs he knew. On the sixth night, Hikoboshi presented Orihime with mochi—pounded rice cakes—flavored with sweet cherry blossoms.

“Finally, on the seventh night, the lovers knew that they could stall no longer. All of the blossoming tree’s branches were laden with heavenly robes, each more exquisite than the last. There could be no argument that one would suit King Tentei.

“After dinner, Orihime sat by Hikoboshi’s hearth and told him a story. She told him about her home in the sky with her father, King Tentei. She told him about the eternal beauty of the stars; the white stone palace on the moon; orchards perpetually full of ripe, perfect fruit; gods and goddesses; and of her tireless, lonely work. She confessed to him that she would take him with her if she could, so that she might enjoy his company forever. He, in turn, confessed his desire to join her. 

“That night, Orihime’s ladies-in-waiting returned, as they had each night before. Under Orihime’s watchful eye, they took the loom apart and ferried it across the river. Then they took the robes she had created, folded them with care, and wrapped them in paper to keep them safe. 

“All seemed well until Orihime had reached the heaven side of the river. She pointed back to the far bank and cried out. One of the robes had been forgotten. This was the last and finest of them all, chosen to be Orihime’s gift to her father. She insisted that Tentei’s magpies fly back to retrieve it. She told them, “No matter what, you must not let go. King Tentei’s robe must not touch the ground or become wet.”

“The magpies took hold of the robe in their beaks and beat their wings and were surprised at the weight. Orihime’s silks were usually light as air, but this one was heavy like a stone. Still, they carried the robe across the river to Orihime. Suddenly, the robe sprouted legs, and then arms, and finally a head! All of the heavenly attendants were startled. Meanwhile, Orihime and Hikoboshi laughed at their clever trick. 

“Hikoboshi said, “It would seem you have no choice but to keep me, for you asked for me yourself, and by the will of King Tentei, here I stand.”

“And Orihime replied, “I would be glad to call you mine.”

“King Tentei was pleased to hear of what had transpired, though he would tell no one. He feigned reluctance, but was quick to bless the union between his daughter and the cowherd Hikoboshi, who was made immortal so that he might live among the gods.”

Hanzo pulled a bit of tobacco from his pouch and rolled it between his fingers. As he tamped it into the bowl of his kiseru, he sighed and said, “If only that had been the end of it.” He had the pleasure of watching McCree start and turn to face him in surprise, his cigar hanging perilously from his open mouth. McCree made for a very receptive audience; this was proving to be entirely too much fun. 

“What exactly do you mean by that?” McCree demanded to know.

Hanzo forced his companion to wait as he lit his pipe and smoked it. Only once he was done did he answer, “I have only told you half the story. Did you think that I was done?”

“Yeah, kinda,” McCree said. “They won, didn’t they? They fell in love and got married and everything.”

Hanzo nodded along. “Yes, they did. And they were so terribly in love that they could think of nothing else but each other.” Hanzo tapped his ashes into the tray, then pulled out a twist of paper to clean his kiseru. As he gently took the pipe apart to clean it, he explained, “They soon neglected their duties, and it caused strife throughout the heavens and the earth. Tentei became enraged.”

McCree held up a hand. “Hold your horses now. Orihime made clothes, and Hikoboshi herded cows. They ain’t hurtin’ no one.”

“Ah, I see your confusion. I did not explain. Please, forgive me.” Hanzo set his pipe aside. “Orihime did not merely making clothing for the gods. Do you remember how I described her silks?”

“Light enough that it didn’t bend the grass, but no light could pass through.”

“Do you know what else that could describe?”

McCree’s brow furrowed. He rubbed at his chin, then his hand traveled up into his hair, knocking his hat askew as he struggled to solve the riddle. “I got nothin’,” he finally conceded. 

“Given the weather here, perhaps that was an unfair question.” Hanzo gestured to the sky. “The clouds. Orihime weaves the clouds and the great bands of rainbows that bridge the sky. She keeps the weather mild and ushers in the seasons with her weaving. When she neglected her work, it threw the mortal world into chaos. There were no clouds to block the harsh summer sun or bring life-giving rain; the crops suffered, and the rivers dried up. The great river dragons abandoned their homes, the animals fled into the mountains, and the people starved. Meanwhile, Hikoboshi’s cows wandered all over the heavens. They ate all the fruit in the orchards and trampled the grains, and no god could tame them.

“Furious, King Tentei ordered Orihime and Hikoboshi to be separated. Hikoboshi and his herd were sent back to the mortal world, and Orihime was confined to her royal quarters. 

“Orihime began to weave again, but it soon became clear that she could not forget Hikoboshi. The clouds she wove were heavy with her tears and made of dark, muddled colors. Where before the lands had suffered drought, now they flooded. She made Autumn cold and draped it in fog with her sorrow. Her silks, too, proved heavy and drab, yet all who wore them were chilled to the bone. Thus all the immortals of Heaven came to know grief, some for the first time.” 

Hanzo glanced over. McCree had snubbed out his cigar and now sat forward with his elbow braced on his knee, his hand over his mouth as he listened with an expression of concern. Although he could continue at length about the tragedy of the parted lovers, Hanzo decided to be merciful.

“One day, Orihime approached her father. With tears in her eyes, she told him that she now believed she would never know happiness again. She had tried to forget Hikoboshi, but he had taken her heart with him, and she would never recover from the loss. 

“Moved by the passion of her words, King Tentei finally relented. If both she and Hikoboshi dedicated themselves to their work, then each year on the seventh day of the seventh month, they would be permitted to see each other.

“The two lovers kept their promise and worked all year, but the first time they tried to meet, they realized there were no boats with which to cross the river. When Tentei banished Hikoboshi, he’d had them all weighted with stones and sunk. Orihime began to despair when suddenly Tentei’s magpies appeared. They begged her not to cry and offered to form a bridge with their wings so that she might cross. Thus the lovers were reunited.

“Ever since, we have held festivals in honor of the weaving princess and the cowherd. During Tanabata, we put up paper decorations and write wishes on slips of paper, which we hang on bamboo. Typically, children are encouraged to wish for their craftsmanship to become better—skills like sewing and writing. I remember”—Hanzo smiled to himself—“my younger brother had terrible handwriting. He would always beg me to write his wish for him, and it was always something frivolous.”

“So that’s it then.”

There was an odd tension in McCree’s words. Hanzo couldn’t decipher it. “Well, there is one detail I forgot. If it rains during Tanabata, the magpies cannot come to help Orihime cross the river, so we also pray for good weather. Rain is no good for festivals either. I wish you could see one—the performers and music, stalls selling festival food, the streets full of bamboo poles covered in brightly colored paper. There are streamers the size of full grown men, and all kinds of paper decorations: nets and sake gourds, purses and fruit and—”

McCree shoved himself to his feet. An aura radiated off of him, heavy like the first hot gust of air promising a scorching summer day. Hanzo was immediately tense. He stood.

“I’ve said something that upset you,” he guessed.

McCree’s shoulders hitched. “What reason’ve I got to be upset?”

“I do not know. Yet it is clear to me that you are. Why?”

McCree huffed and scrunched up his face like he’d tasted something unpleasant. “It’s stupid.”

“I would hear it anyways.”

“No, I mean the story’s stupid.”

Hanzo stiffened like he’d been struck. He had agonized over creating a story to rival McCree’s, and this was how he repaid him for the effort: with insults.

“If that is how you feel, I will take my leave. I thank you for your honesty,” Hanzo said, his words sharp. 

“What? No! I mean—I mean the whole story’s about these two lovers findin’ each other, which was all the king’s doin’ anyhow, and then they’re punished for one mistake and separated forever? I mean, one day every year they get to hold each other, but only if they work their asses off—that ain’t fair!”

“Fair?” Hanzo rounded on McCree. “What does being fair have to do with it? Life is not fair. Orihime and Hikoboshi are lucky; they might never have met or known love at all. That they are allowed to meet every year is a gift.”

“It’s cruel.”

“It is what had to be done. In neglecting their duties, they threw everything into chaos. They were selfish.”

“Love ain’t selfish.”

“Spoken like a true Westerner.”

“Excuse me?”

Hanzo put on a mocking, saccharine voice and swept a hand out dramatically, “Love conquers all. Love is the greatest treasure. Every fairytale ends with a prince and a princess living ‘happily ever after’. But what about everyone else? Your family? Your people? Your nation? We all have a duty to each other, and when we neglect our duty, others suffer.”

“So you’d choose duty over love,” McCree accused.

“Yes, I would,” Hanzo snapped. “What about you?”

McCree had puffed up, his face a mask of fury, but Hanzo’s words struck an obvious blow. He deflated. “I… I don’t know.”

Hanzo supposed that meant he’d won, but he didn’t feel like it. Rather, Hanzo felt drained. He had tried so hard. He had been proud of himself. But now McCree wanted to argue with him and pick apart the tapestry he had labored to weave. It hurt that McCree had not enjoyed it, but that wasn’t his fault, nor was it his responsibility to make McCree understand the moral of his story. 

“Let me know when you have an answer, then. I am done. I need to rest.” With that, Hanzo turned and vanished. 

Perhaps Hanzo truly had overexerted himself, because he did not quite recall returning to the house, and it was not until late in the morning that he became aware of himself again, sitting in the living room. Rosa walked by, dragging a vacuum towards the bedrooms, her hair pulled back with a bandanna.

As the vacuum started up, Hanzo nearly missed the sound of tapping on the window. He walked over reluctantly. McCree stood a distance away, eyes fixed on the house and his mouth a hard line. He nodded to Hanzo when he spotted him.

Hanzo stepped outside. There was no shade on this side of the house so early in the day. Hanzo always felt thinner under the sun’s harsh scrutiny, but it helped to banish the lingering shadows of the night before from his mind. 

“Good morning, McCree,” Hanzo said politely. He decided in that moment that if McCree did not bring it up, he was willing to treat last night as if it had never happened. After all, had he not decided only the day before that he needed to be more flexible and willing to forgive? Especially with how different they were, these mistakes were bound to happen. He could not expect McCree to understand.

McCree rocked back on his heels as if considering retreat before he walked over, closing the distance in a few long strides. His gaze dropped. “I owe you an apology,” he said, taking Hanzo by surprise. “Now don’t go expectin’ me to get on my knees or nothin’, but”—McCree pulled his hat off and pressed it to his chest. His eyes flicked up to Hanzo’s face before he bowed deeply at the waist—“I’m sorry for my behavior last night. It weren’t proper of me. I shoulda showed you the same respect that you showed me; there ain’t no excuse for how I acted.”

“Thank you,” Hanzo said belatedly. “But that is not necessary.”

“Yes it is,” McCree insisted as he straightened. “And I want you to know, I took some time to think on it, and I get it now. Orihime and Hikoboshi weren’t punished for bein’ in love. They had a responsibility to others, and they let ‘em down. It weren’t so much that they were selfish, but they stopped thinkin’ about other people, and, well, that can end up hurting folks just as much.” McCree scuffed his boot through the dirt. “There’s some things in this world only we can do. Things that need doin’. I know better than most, and I shoulda remembered that. I lost my temper over nothing.”

“You lost your temper because you wanted a happy ending.”

McCree locked eyes with Hanzo, and the openness of his expression—the shock and want and melancholy—made Hanzo look away, suddenly embarrassed. 

“I mean, you were invested in their happiness. You see their love as a virtue: something worthy of reward.”

“Isn’t it?” McCree fiddled with his hat before putting it back on. “When I was alive, I was the sorta man who loved too easy, but I tended to play my cards close to my chest; never told anyone how I really felt. Letting yourself love someone is one of the most dangerous things a fella can do. Anyone willing t’ risk it is braver than me. Guess that’s why I hated the idea of those two bein’ kept apart.”

“I understand your frustration,” Hanzo said, “but you are missing the real lesson behind the story. I believe it teaches that if one does one’s duty and is mindful of the needs of others, they will be rewarded. All good things come to us if we work towards them with patience and diligence. And though I have never been in love… I would like to think that even a day would be worth any price.”

“Sounds like you’re as much of a hopeless romantic as I am. How very Western.”

“Take that back.”

McCree barked out a laugh, and suddenly it was as if they had never fought at all. Hanzo smiled softly. 

“So, you willing to bury the hatchet?” Mccree asked.

It was not a phrase familiar to Hanzo, but he got the gist of it. “Yes. Perhaps we should take a break from telling stories, though.”

“Fair enough. And maybe now and then we could meet when it’s daylight out. I’m startin’ to get the sense you’re ashamed to be seen with me,” McCree teased.

“No one can see us.”

“So it’s agreed then.”

Hanzo shook his head. “You are persistent.”

“It’s one of my better traits.” McCree smirked. “I promise not to distract you from your duties.”

“You had better not,” Hanzo agreed.

Something thudded loudly inside the house. Rosa cleaning, no doubt.

Hanzo hissed. “She is not supposed to be lifting things.”

“You better go take care o’ that. See ya later, Shimada.”

“This afternoon,” Hanzo said, a question lingering in his voice. 

“This afternoon,” McCree agreed. “You know where to find me.” And with that, he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- _Jūnihitoe_ \- Meaning “twelve layers.” A formal court dress from the Heian period (8th-12th century), the era Hanzo set his story in.  
\- _Engawa_ \- A strip of hardwood flooring surrounding the outside of a house, like a veranda, with doors on either side separating the inside and outside spaces.  
\- _Kizami-tabako_ \- Finely shredded Japanese tobacco  
\- _Waka_ \- A form of classical Japanese poetry predating the haiku, usually consisting of five lines of 5/7/5/7/7 syllables respectively. It fell out of style for some time, but experienced a revival during the Edo period.  
\- _Haibun_ \- A literary genre combining descriptive prose and haiku to capture a scene or moment. This style flourished during the Edo period.
> 
> \- [Honmune-zukuri architecture](https://www.kcpinternational.com/2015/05/the-japanese-minka-homes/)  
\- The Boshin War was a civil war fought from 1868 to 1869 between the ruling Tokugawa shogunate and the Imperial Court seeking to reclaim political power.  
\- [Tanabata](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tanabata)  
\- [Everything you need to know about Japanese kimono silk](https://modernarchive.de/blogs/news/japanese-kimono-silk-everything-you-need-to-know)  
\- [How to use a kiseru pipe](https://rebornpipes.com/tag/how-to-use-a-kiseru-pipe/)  
\- [Dogeza](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dogeza)  
\- Food in Ancient Japan: [[1]](https://www.mayaincaaztec.com/medievel-japan/food-in-ancient-japan) [[2]](https://www.ancient.eu/article/1082/food--agriculture-in-ancient-japan/)  
\- [Seasonal ingredients in Japan](http://tsukiji-cooking.com/seasonal-ingredients-japan/)


End file.
